


Mousetrap

by levitatethis



Series: Slow Burn [4]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three weeks since Mohinder and Sylar last met (and unexpected feels were revealed).  An attack on the Resistance forces everyone to deal with the reality of a very dangerous situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mousetrap

_**Seems somebody burned out the signs ~~ I can’t expect the hard curves ~~ There is no borders ~~ There are no lines ~~ How can I know where to turn? ~~ You make the streetlights reappear ~~ I feel bright when you stand near ~~ I know what I am when you are here ~~ My place becomes so clear **_  
**\- Lights, ****Who Will Drive My Soul?**

It should not be like this.

Somewhere between self-determination and self-actualization his life had diverted from the course supposedly set out long ago. So slowly it was unperceivable to the naked eye, distinctly definable edges had been transformed into something porous and fluid. It absolutely frightens him. But exhilaration chases the fear and the one uncontrollable factor is now the one that makes the most sense.

The name was his undoing.

Standing beneath the heated spray of a motel shower he braces his left arm against the musty tiled wall and reaches his right hand between his legs. Keeping his eyes closed he can feel Mohinder press up against his back and kiss the base of his neck. He shifts, slightly parting his lips and feels the hot water that beats down on him strike his teeth, gums, and the tip of his tongue when he rubs it along his bottom lip.

One imaginary arm wraps around his chest while the other slides along his right arm and takes over the soft but firm hold on his hardening cock. He moves his hand, as Mohinder’s, up and down, building up a faster pace. A hot breath hisses against his ear and he moans his approval.

_Gabriel. _

A twist and two sharp tugs and it is only the empty bathroom that receives his muffled declaration. Half hunched over he catches his breath and then stands up to let the water wash away the evidence of his most brilliant weakness.

Jerking off alone in a shower is not what he had in mind when he first thought about his birth name marking the next chapter. He catches some water in his mouth then spits it out at the wall while telekinetically turning the water off. Bringing a towel over (the state of which makes him cringe in disgust) he steps out of the shower and wipes his body down. He drops the towel to the floor and steps over to the sink, which he grips with both hands, and eyes himself in the mirror.

Although he would never admit it he can see the longing disappointment that swirls tempermentally below his tensed brows and dark eyes. He smiles at his reflection and shyly drops his gaze to the sink. Looking up again he takes a step back in surprise. He almost seems happy. The sustainability of having his name whispered out in the open is bound freedom. He turns his smile into a knowing grin, one that will stay in place until he exits the bathroom.

Steadily, while humming a song he does not know, he gets dressed. The look (bootcut black jeans, untucked blue button down shirt and a black button up vest) is completed with a quick and deliberate messing up of his hair. Socks and boots are in the other room and he has his right hand wrapped around the doorknob when the wooden panel pounds a vibration through from the other side.

“Sylar,” Peter calls out and the door shakes under his aggressive knocks.

He opens the door to find Peter staring back with wide eyes and his cellphone propped up to his left ear.

“Mmmm,” Peter mumbles, stepping back to let him pass.

He watches Peter with curiosity and sits on the edge of the nearest bed. Both gray socks go on first then the black combat boots.

“Yes…I know…okay, Mohinder.”

He is on his feet and stretching out his right hand, silently demanding the phone, but Peter is already snapping it shut.

“We have to go,” Peter says, half distracted and half focusing on him.

“What’s going on?” he says, annoyed that he has been denied the opportunity to speak with Mohinder three weeks since everything changed. Three weeks of knowing with Mohinder, of ruminating on the blatant want they had enwrapped themselves with, in a concrete stairwell, had felt a lifetime longer than the year apart (when unbelievable truths were as yet unknown) that had preceded this.

“There’s been an accident,” Peter says carefully.

“Mohinder,” he says, rushed, his breath suddenly heavy as he pushes into Peter’s space.

“Is fine,” Peter raises his hand in a pacifying gesture. “But we need to go now.”

He narrows his eyes as he tries to calculate how long it will take them to get to Mohinder and Bennet. “If we leave now when will we get there?”

“We’re not driving.”

The statement should be a relief but he hears the unspoken reason. Whatever has happened is bad enough that they cannot afford to waste any time. His stomach twists into a sizeable knot and he stretches out his left arm to call forth his wallet from the nightstand. He never takes his eyes off of Peter as the empath grips his shoulders. For a moment Peter looks about to say something but changes his mind. He watches worry settle into the crinkles of his eyes.

“What is it P—,?”

 

_**  
It’s coming round again ~~ The slowly creeping hand ~~ Of time and its command ~~ Soon enough it comes ~~ And settles in its place ~~~ Its shadow in my face ~~ Puts pressure in my day**_   
_**\- Powderfinger, **_**These Days**

Mohinder sits at the kitchen table, hunched over with his eyes closed. Resting his right arm flat on the surface with the cellphone pressed in his palm he rubs the fingers of his left hand against his forehead. He sighs as Hyacinthe Basset’s Quebecois accented voice travels lividly from the living room. The house they are in, easily blended in with so many others built pre-World War II, resides in an industrial area near the outskirts of Detroit and the floor plan does little to buffer the intensity of sound traveling from one room to another.

“This is beyond reckless even for you, Noah!”

“We knew there was a chance of an ambush early o—,”

“Which you insisted, if it happened, would be aimed at Peter and Sylar as a show of her force. _Not_ at my team who didn’t have nearly the same natural defenses.”

The quiet that follows makes Mohinder open his eyes and lift his head, listening closely. Footsteps move about. He hears Bennet speak next, forceful but much more toned down.

“She’s never shown this type of strategic thinking. Aggression—yes, but maneuvering?”

“Well next time we see her let’s ask her to please stay on script so that we’re not caught off guard.”

More quiet invades the heavy emptiness of cold rooms and Bennet asks, “How bad is Jean Claude?”

“He has no feeling in his left leg and is blind in the right eye. Henri has first degree burns around his torso and we’re not sure if he’ll ever walk again.”

Mohinder flips up his phone cover and hovers his fingers over the buttons. He hears Hyacinthe raise her voice again.

“This was badly done. She could have come after you two. I expect you to shoot anything, and Mohinder’s better with the gun even with…itchy finger? But I told you to make sure you’re both assigned with a Special. This arrangement changes _now_.”

“Come on,” Mohinder urges under his breath, wondering if he should call again when he feels a shift in the room. He slams the flip cover down and looks over to the right.

Unsurprisingly it is Gabriel’s dark eyes that greet him first. Seeing him move forward Mohinder quickly redirects his focus at Peter.

_Just Sylar. Only Sylar_, the broken record plays out in his head.

“There are going to be changes in the plans,” Mohinder says. “I’ll fill you in. Bennet’s getting court marshaled, something I’m sure you’d like to see Sylar.”

He keeps his eyes trained on Peter and nods his head over his shoulder towards the living room. Peter looks curiously at him, no doubt at the coldness in his voice, then at Sylar before approaching the empty chair at the table.

“Are you okay?” Sylar asks with hesitation in his step.

Mohinder briefly acknowledges him. “As fine as can be,” is his flat reply. “There’s no time for small talk. You should get in there.”

A chilly tension draws out as Mohinder keeps his eyes focused on Peter, now in the chair to his right. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sylar frozen to the spot and forces himself to not engage with him directly. He stays silent and waits until Sylar eventually turns on his heels and walks towards Bennet and Hyacinthe’s frustrated voices.

Three weeks have made a complete jumble of his mind. What was once certainty had fallen victim to the classic whims of over analysis and a crystal picture faded into a hazy pixelation that was subject to abrupt reinterpretations and roughly assigned signifiers.

It had made sense at the time, in the isolated bubble of the stairwell. Everything from before had come together, connected like a distant constellation that told a mythological story. But back in the real world less than twenty-four hours and doubt set in like sunshine disguising the ever-present stardust backdrop light years away.

Mohinder had thought on it so much and seeing Gabriel now had made him almost sick to his stomach. He can still feel it clenching at his instinctive reaction to their suddenly close proximity. The distressing problem is not that things are less clear but that they are obvious and unadorned. How he actually feels is no longer in doubt. It is an unquestionable given.

_Just Sylar. Only Sylar._

He cannot imagine how Sylar will react to such a pronouncement, if he ever decides to broach it during this meeting. Narrowed eyes and a smirk? Dismissive? Knowingly, like he saw it coming the whole time and it is what it is? Knowingly, like his intuitive aptitude marked this course ages ago?

Debilitating self-reflection is broken when Peter’s hand is suddenly on top of his arm. Mohinder sees the concern in his eyes and sighs.

“Calm down,” Peter says softly. “He’ll…it’ll be okay.”

Mohinder cannot be bothered that Peter has most likely read his uncensored thoughts. It hardly seems to matter.

“Will it?” he says to Peter and to himself.

Clarity is a dangerous thing.

 

_**I can’t stand rockin’ when I’m in here ~~ ‘Cause your crystal ball ain’t so crystal clear ~~ So, while you sit back and wonder why ~~ I’ve got this fucking thorn in my side ~~ Oh my god, it’s a mirage ~~ I’m telling y’all it’s sabotage **_  
_**\- Beastie Boys,**_ **Sabotage**

By the time Mohinder and Peter join everyone in the living room Sylar is already glowering, in full tactical mode, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest and his right leg crossed over his left. Bennet is in line with him on the other side of the room, behind the sofa, bent forward and tightly squeezing the top of the backrest in a vice grip. He pushes up against the strength of Hyacinthe’s words as she stands to his left and berates him over shortsighted game plans and the necessity to severely overhaul their tactical procedures.

Peter’s put upon, “What’s going on?” (meant to relieve the uncomfortable awkwardness that stifles the room rather than actually seeking an explanation) calls everyone’s attention over. Mohinder, following a few feet behind, comes to a stilted stop near the middle of the room between the sofa and Sylar. His purposeful avoidance of any eye contact only manages to piss off Sylar more and he resists the temptation to call out Mohinder for childish aloofness better suited to a playground.

“As usual,” Sylar says to Peter, “Bennet here has miscalculated the intentions of some very dangerous people.”

“That’s not exactly what happened,” Bennet rolls his eyes.

“That’s _precisely_ what happened,” Hyacinthe says while Sylar glares at him.

“Adethe,” Sylar begins while pushing off the wall and moving a few steps to the left, away from everyone, “Was supposed to be focused on our—,”

He turns to nod at Peter.

“Meeting with Daniel, not intercepting…Henri?”

He eyes Hyacinthe for clarification and she mumbles, “Yes,” beneath an expression of curiosity at his easy control of the room.

“Henri,” Sylar repeats more firmly,” and Jean Claude who were in the position of messengers. She cut off the tail not the head.”

“Why risk that?” Peter asks shaking his head. “Why show that hand?”

“To tell us we’re not as smart as we think we are,” Hyacinthe says and Bennet stands tall, yelling, “Damn it!”

“Finally taking this seriously,” Hyacinthe throws her arms in the air.

Bennet draws his lips into a tight line and stares at her before saying, “It was a chance I honestly didn’t think she would take. She’s exposed her left flank.”

“Only if we take advantage of it,” Mohinder says and turns to Peter. “Otherwise it’s no skin off her back.”

“So what comes next? Do we strike quick or stay back?”

Peter’s question hangs in the air. Their next move will set the tone for the upcoming fight that had seemed much more distant before today. Sylar drifts his gaze across each of them: Bennet is sighing deeply and beginning to pace the far length of the room, Hyacinthe stays in place watching him with her eyes flared wide in anger, Peter momentarily lost in thought suddenly returns Sylar’s gaze but Sylar is already shifting his attention to Mohinder who is looking over his left shoulder out the window.

Sylar cannot get a read on his expression and he is irritated at how out of sorts he feels over Mohinder’s odd behaviour. A discouraging pit of worry is settling in his stomach but he does his best to dismiss it. Mohinder is the only one who flips this switch in him and he refuses to get caught up in something as base as feelings. As unimportant as it seems, however, Sylar still notices the contrast in Mohinder’s attire from last time. Faded blue jeans and an untucked button down paisley shirt are old school for him and Sylar wonders if there is significance in that return to old form.

Mohinder looks his way and Sylar keeps his gaze unfettered by not blinking. Keeping his face flat from emotion he makes no silent inquiry about what has taken up such thoughtless residence in Mohinder’s mind. That move is one Mohinder will have to make of his own accord and for a second, his mouth parting, it looks to be happening but Bennet interrupts.

“It’s a matter of both. We need to be responsive _and_ methodical.”

Hyacinthe picks up the charge. “We have a team setting up to meet tomorrow afternoon just over the bridge in Windsor. Details will be provided later. For now…”

“We have to regroup,” Mohinder sighs.

“Obviously,” Sylar says harshly eliciting a quick pleading look of _‘c’mon!’ _from Mohinder. Immediately he reprimands himself for allowing such a personal glimpse beneath his façade but hopes it can be mistaken for expected smugness.

Mohinder stands tall in the center of the room, calling everyone’s attention to him. “It is no longer an intelligent option for Bennet and I to remain partnered since neither of us has any helpful abilities, besides good aim. It’s…not safe.”

“Of course,” Peter agrees and squeezes Mohinder’s shoulder.

“Exactly,” Hyacinthe emphasizes the word while striking her left hand into the air.

Still holding on to Mohinder, Peter looks at Bennet and says, “Then I guess I’m—,”

“With me.”

The unexpectedly abrupt statement from Bennet catches everyone off guard. He follows it up by saying, “All things being equal I’d prefer not to listen to Sylar’s misplaced condescension. Besides there are some issues regarding Claire that Peter and I need to discuss.”

Sylar hardly has time to process the words. He is far too jolted at the prospect of being alone on the road again with Mohinder. Whether this is a fortunate turn of events or not is unclear considering his own surprise is matched in Mohinder’s gaping mouth and widened eyes. The reaction does little to dissuade the doom of uncertainty that courses throughout Sylar.

“Are you sure?” Mohinder asks, sounding far too skeptical of the decision as he moves away from Peter’s touch. Sylar rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” Bennet says, control of the situation reflected in the steady force of his voice. “There’s no time to argue debatable points. Peter and I will go to…wherever he was staying and move out from there. Hyacinthe…”

“I know,” she says. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I know about tomorrow.”

She looks around at all of them and, for the first time, her anger dissipates, revealing her exhaustion. “I’m sorry it came to this,” she says. “But we’ve let too many mistakes blow up in our faces. We cannot afford to lose more people—not yet.”

Without giving anyone a chance to respond she pixelates into a life size pointillism display and fades into nothingness.

“No love lost there,” Sylar mutters and Bennet shoots him a grim look that he shrugs off nonchalantly.

Looking back at Mohinder he watches Peter learn in. He tunes Dale Smith’s power to hear Peter whisper, “It’ll be okay.” Sylar muffles a grimace at the rapid pounding of Mohinder’s heart. Fuming inside Sylar glares at the closeness that has always come so easily to them. Their intimate sphere is broken by Bennet’s approach. A final nod between them finds one small smile trying to soothe one broken one, and Peter grabs Bennet’s shoulder and they disappear.

 

_**I fought the war ~~ But the war won ~~ I fought the war ~~ But the war won’t stop for the love of god**_   
_**\- Metric,**_ **Monster Hospital**

The very second that there is no one other than Sylar staring back at him, Mohinder feels the rising shame of regret for how badly he has mishandled everything. It was so much easier to delay or ignore the thoughts that took pleasure in tormenting his mind when there were others around to serve as worthy distractions. Bells and whistles, the absence of those outside parties reveals the deafening apprehension of what is left between the two men.

Mohinder uselessly looks at the floor then up to Sylar who is standing with hands on his hips and staring down his nose at him. All imposing control emanates from Sylar’s stance and Mohinder briefly looks away, letting loose an annoyed sigh at himself (although the clenching of Sylar’s jaw suggests his belief that the show of irritation is directed at him). Sylar’s offensive stance is a protective defensive mechanism that Mohinder remembers from when they were partnered up. At the time he had not realized the depth of how deeply rooted the tactical precision was.

“I—,”

“Tomorrow will be a long day. We should get some rest.”

Sylar’s quick dismissal does not encourage either man to move. Mohinder licks his lips, another tell of nervousness he would not be surprised Sylar has made note of in his abstract catalogue of personal quirks. He takes a couple of steps towards Sylar and tries again, “About sounding so rude before…”

“Adethe Botha just made a strategic offensive move against us. As far as I’m concerned there are no other issues right now. We have work to do and I’d imagine you would agree that that takes precedent,” Sylar says, disregarding any attempt at an explanation.

Considering Mohinder’s actions since Sylar’s arrival, he realizes he should not feel quite so surprised at the challenge being leveled at him, but it is the angle of the delivery that confuses him. He expects Sylar to be in his face regarding this turn about from their last meeting when big picture schemes were willingly pushed to the background for a personal retread down memory lane.

Instead it is distant and removed like way back in the beginning of their tumultuous partnership and Mohinder is crushed under the force of chaotic uncertainty as he attempts to reconcile this version with the one that gave way to stringently emphatic feelings. Even if this behaviour is nothing more than defensive posturing, it is unusual for Sylar to not take advantage of an opportunity to make him less comfortable.

Noticing Sylar’s focus moving over his shoulder Mohinder steps in front of him as a human blockade. “Be that as it may I still—,”

“Don’t want to get bogged down in unnecessarily long and ultimately meaningless—,”

“Would you stop interrupting me?”

“It’s not like you’re going to say anything particularly enlightening.”

“Sylar!”

It is the tiniest of breaks that undoes Sylar’s otherwise impassive expression. As fast as his resolve falters it is rebuilt, sturdier than ever behind seemingly coal black eyes narrowed beneath downwardly arched eyebrows. The last time Mohinder saw a similar expression grace Sylar’s face another murderer was on his knees begging for mercy. It was frightening. Feeling it directed at him now constricts his chest with unforeseen worry and his breathing turns shallow. He folds his arms across his chest to hide his hands under his arms and disguise his nervousness playing out as he fidgets his fingers.

Swallowing (and it must be loud enough to heard clear across the room), Mohinder calmly says, “Would you just let me—I didn’t mean to be so dismissive when you first arrived.”

“Yes you did,” Sylar says rather tersely.

Mohinder pauses in surprise, his mouth hanging half open. He quirks an eyebrow and decides against saying anything more, instead letting his attention move the focus to what Sylar is implying. Sylar takes a small step back and shrugs.

“Of course you did,” Sylar says. “Everything you do is with a purpose. It’s not always with the right outcome in mind but there’s always intent.”

Mohinder’s breath catches in his throat as Sylar steps near and leans in close.

“I’m the same way,” Sylar pulls straight up to loom over him. “There is always a reason. Even when the direction changes.”

“Sylar,” Mohinder says with the growing need to clarify the exact terms of what is being proffered so cryptically.

“Don’t!” Sylar snaps and Mohinder startles.

“I don’t follow other peoples leads,” Sylar says closing his eyes contemplatively. Then he is staring deeply into Mohinder’s gaze. “But I can read changes and adapt. That was then and this is now, right? Life is far too precarious at the moment to lend any weight to the…inconsequential. Maybe another time.”

Sylar’s tone carries with it a sense of discarded finality. He has made the decision easiest for them both to handle and Mohinder mindlessly, confusedly, says, “Huh…yes…another time.”

He turns his back to Sylar and slowly makes his way to the entranceway between the living room and the hallway where the stairs to the second floor cut across the perimeter. This is not how their meeting again was supposed to go but now that this hand has been played out going with it is the least difficult option. Still, it feels wrong, but resignation creeps deep and he fancies himself a coward for all the impropriety.

Mohinder stops and turns around, seeing that Sylar is watching him. “You can take the bedroom upstairs, second door on the left,” he says and leans against the wall, noticing Sylar’s furrowed brow. “I have work to do and could use the quiet down here.”

After a lengthy pause, and what amounts to a staring contest, Sylar pitches forward and Mohinder reactively stands up straight keeping his eyes trained ahead, refusing to give away anything other than what he intends. Mohinder follows Sylar’s swaggering stride as he halts next to him.

“Business as usual then,” Sylar says in a flat tone that feels repressive and reductive to Mohinder.

“Yes,” is Mohinder’s quick reply; meant to avoid dragging the broken coldness of their conversation out any longer.

Sylar’s eyes search his. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Sylar eventually says and Mohinder listens to the slow thump of his retreating footsteps as he heads upstairs.

 

_**I feel you up and feel you down ~~ I need your space, I need it now ~~ Now ~~ Now I need it ~~ Now ~~ Now I need it ~~ Now**_   
_**\- Finger 11,**_ **Temporary Arms **

Glancing at his watch Sylar sees he has been sitting at the end of the bed for two hours. His boots are carefully placed below the window to this right and the dim light that coats the room from the ceiling fixture is in need of a change, most likely in the next couple of days.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees clasping his hands together. He listens. The sound of Mohinder so close, at the kitchen table typing away on his laptop, is exhilarating and vanquishing for the overpowering emotions it drags forward. Sylar hates feeling humbled. He had let his guard down, unleashing all those years of pent up feelings instead of allowing them—forcing them—to lay dormant, but all it had gotten them (him) was one perfect moment in a concrete box and a few weeks of sexual frustration.

Now life has punched him in the gut, winked at him mockingly as if to say, _‘did you really think this was going to be anything special?’_ He should be fine with getting what he can and walking away with his hands clean.

But just a taste of Mohinder has sent everything haywire. A coveted touch has exposed the weakness of his wanting and needing. Denial is a self-assigned state of survival. That which he wants, he must take. That which he needs must not be given room to breathe. Square one is not a bad place to be. At least he knows where he stands.

The creak of floorboards under footsteps snaps Sylar to attention. To the sink, tap turn, water filling up a glass then poured out and refilled. A large gulp and the glass clinks in to the basin. Deep breathing matches slow steps to the foot of the stairs where an endless pause brings a crease to Sylar’s brow as he concentrates curiously.

He hears blood rushing through Mohinder’s body and the quiet thud of the bottom step under added weight. The next step, then another announces Mohinder’s approach and Sylar steels himself to not move from the bed. He eyes the sliver of light that peeks from under the door before a shadow move into place. There is another pause and Sylar ignores the suggested intimacy of a hand pressed flat against the door. Skin stretches and bends as the hand curls into a fist and a knock echoes forth.

“May I come in?”

Sylar stares down at his hands and listens to the door being opened then closed. Mohinder’s tentative footsteps cross the distance between them. Following a mindful breath Sylar looks up as Mohinder stops in front of him, so close he can feel the heat rising off of his body. Keeping his own face blank, Sylar is surprised by the look of indecisiveness on Mohinder’s face. As the gaze between them stretches out boundlessly, Sylar is wholly unprepared for the light touch of Mohinder’s right hand along the side of his face.

“I’m a terrible person,” Mohinder sighs.

“I could have told you that,” Sylar says, the quietness of his tone hardly hiding the joking sarcasm.

Mohinder thumbs the graze of stubble along Sylar’s cheek, motioning a small circle. It is a sharp contrast to earlier and Sylar snatches his arm and glares. “What is this? _Now_ you want to talk? Lonely downstairs? What exactly do you want?”

His right arm held firmly in place, Mohinder runs his left hand through the top of Sylar’s hair. Sylar has to fight the urge to close his eyes and succumb to the touch that exudes so much calm while racing his heart. He moves his head back, out from Mohinder’s touch, but maintains his demanding gaze.

Sylar loosens his grip on Mohinder’s hand; still holding on, while Mohinder drops his other one to Sylar’s shoulder and fiddles with the seamed edge of his vest.

“When we heard about the ambush the first thing I felt was relief that it wasn’t you,” Mohinder says and the confession flips Sylar’s stomach. “The second thing was thanks it wasn’t Bennet and me.”

Sylar watches Mohinder look away, to some spot on the wall behind him.

“I didn’t think about what had happened to Hyacinthe’s team until after,” Mohinder returns his look and tightens his hand around Sylar’s. “All I could think about was that we still had time.”

Sylar feels Mohinder’s left hand move across his shoulders to cup his neck. His pulse jackhammers with the clarity of what is being uneasily admitted and the anger from earlier melts away with the honest revelations.

“We never have enough of it. We’re always off in the calculations,” Mohinder goes on. “By the time I realized it made sense…It’s too risky or too brief. It’s filled to the brim with others or just enough of a taste to carry us—me—over until the next time. And even then there’s no telling when next time will be. So all we have is this—,”

Mohinder tugs on his hand.

“Or this—,”

Mohinder leans down and gently kisses Sylar’s forehead, then presses his own against it. “And it’s not enough but it’s all we get and…I wanted to believe it would be easier—though difficult—to ignore this…you…us…”

Sylar lets the words sink in and, moving his head back again, guardedly says, “And here I thought work was too important to deal with me.” He tries to stand up but Mohinder stops him by pushing down on his shoulders.

Sylar closes his eyes as Mohinder leans in and capture his lips, coaxing him into a kiss. The teasing taste intoxicates and Sylar places both hands on Mohinder’s hips, angling upward into what is left of the decreasing space between them.

Mohinder pulls back slightly and whispers against his lips, “Gabriel, you’re the only one I wanted to deal with.”

Gabriel’s eyes fly open. With the help of a little telekinesis he pushes Mohinder back and stands up to his full height. Mohinder’s eyes are hazy but focused, his pupils blown wide hungrily consuming Gabriel’s form. Stepping forward Gabriel brings them chest-to-chest. He hovers his mouth over Mohinder’s as they gaze deeply into each other’s eyes, and steps forward, forcing Mohinder a step back. He repeats this—eight steps forward to Mohinder’s eight steps back—until the wall barricades Mohinder in between with a loud thud.

Then Gabriel is earnestly kissing and sucking on Mohinder’s lips and pulling his fingers at his hips. Astounding arousal flares through him at the sound of blood rushing to plump up Mohinder’s mouth, until it is swollen and reddening from the sensitive ministrations. Mohinder wraps his left arm around Gabriel’s back while rubbing the back of his neck with the right one, pulling at Gabriel’s lips fervently.

Gabriel knows that he and Mohinder should be talking and trying to figure out what exactly it is that has ensnared them together, but words only complicate and the definitive rendering of their every touch and taste is too delectable to fathom stopping. Word heavy and over analytical discussions can wait for another time.

Mohinder pushes against him and he is so caught up he does not realize until halfway through the movement that he has been turned around with Mohinder pushing him against the wall. Mohinder nuzzles his nose into the crook of Gabriel’s neck and begins undoing the buttons on his vest, which is then tossed to the ground. Gabriel moans low when Mohinder licks and sucks on his neck, focusing in on one spot and ensuring a telltale mark that singes bright the welcome burst of blood vessels in a purplish bruise.

Mohinder runs his hands up under Gabriel’s shirt, tentatively resting them on his stomach. Gabriel grasps both hands around Mohinder’s neck and kisses his cheek and temple, then lightly runs his tongue and lower lip across his forehead before claiming his lips once again. Mohinder tongues him and grabs the tail of his shirt pulling him forward. Moving backwards again, this time Mohinder is the one controlling their momentum of rational abandonment to the bed.

 

_**Yeah the truth is ~~ That I miss you so ~~And I’m tired ~~ I should not have let you go ~~ So I crawl back into your open arms ~~ Yes, I crawl back into your open arms **_  
_**\- Coldplay,**_ **Warning Sign**

In the gleam of moonlight they are an entanglement of limbs and rumpled clothing held in place by random buttons, half lowered zippers and their bodies pressed together. Synthetic barriers aside they are body heat intensified and drenched in musky pheromones. They murmur wet lips against hypersensitive skin. Ridged fingertips caress angular lines, drawing nonsensical patterns of invisible etchings.

Gabriel breathes in deeply; his face nestled against Mohinder’s neck. As Gabriel moves to settle a light kiss on his far shoulder Mohinder licks his encouraging request in the hollow at the bottom of his neck. Wayward tuffs of hair tickle and both men settle into the welcoming embrace of each other’s body.

Side-by-side a shift moves one on top and a gentle kiss with only the teasing tips of their tongues grows deeper. They adjust their legs at odd angles to force themselves, impossibly, closer together and the beginning of faint bruises aches below their skin. Breathing is forgotten as a secondary necessity to not letting go.

Their lips pressed together, Mohinder’s smile trips up the corners of Gabriel’s mouth into a mirror image. With another twist and turn Mohinder is stretching out, half under Gabriel, to stake a kiss behind his left ear that calls out a soft whimper of enjoyment as the ticklish answer.

Lying together they feel out their secret language in matching breaths with their limbs resting upon each other. Every few minutes a kiss is nudged between them—followed by either a contented sigh and the quiet still that comes from simply being together or the more aggressive grope and grind that screams of everything that rapidly courses through their bloodstreams.

Gabriel pushes up Mohinder’s shirt to bare his stomach and places two kisses against his taut skin and matted hair while Mohinder threads his hands through Gabriel’s hair. Sitting up Mohinder bends forward and hums against Gabriel’s neck, then pushes them both up and over with Gabriel stomach first on the bed. Mohinder works himself between Gabriel’s legs and breathes through Gabriel’s cotton blue shirt onto his back. He presses his tongue to the fabric and sucks in the burning heat that rises from Gabriel’s body as he squirms in place.

Mohinder works his right hand underneath Gabriel, pressing hard against the front of his pants, feeling the half hard erection that matches his own. Gabriel’s groan is partially muffled by the pillow and Mohinder pushes his body against Gabriel’s, shifting his hips deliberately, and increasing the friction by rubbing his hand quicker across his groin.

Gabriel sucks the air in sharply and turns over, grabbing Mohinder in the process and flipping him onto his back. He pulls Mohinder’s legs around his waist and shoves his hips forward eliciting a throaty moan from Mohinder who leans up and kisses him, insistently but tenderly.

Temporarily giving in to the tidal wave of the sensory overload, Gabriel eventually pulls back and telekinetically encourages Mohinder to rest back on the bed. Mohinder tightens his legs around Gabriel, digging his heels in just below his ass. Their heavy breathing echoes loudly and Mohinder raises his left hand to Gabriel’s face, pushing his hair back and cupping his cheek.

The blue light from the moon paints their faces in a muted palette and their dark eyes, though indistinguishable, hold onto each other. Mohinder drags his left thumb across Gabriel’s mouth, and, with a shy smile Gabriel parts his lips and licks at the tip. Mohinder breathes deeply and pushes his thumb further in. He narrows his eyes in a state of heightened bliss at Gabriel’s tongue massaging his thumb and then the wonderfully sharp pull of Gabriel’s teeth around his thumb ring.

As their actions slow and draw out, Gabriel uses telekinesis to unhook the cuff button and slides the sleeve up Mohinder’s arm to expose his skin. He lets go of Mohinder’s thumb and gently drops a string of wet kisses, while rubbing his cheek against, down the side of Mohinder’s arm, creating a scratching friction. Mohinder hooks his right arm around Gabriel’s back and pulls him down to his body. In sync each step of the way they roll on their sides with Mohinder holding Gabriel curled in towards his chest.

Two minutes. Five minutes. Eight minutes.

“Gabriel?”

“Mmmm,” Gabriel leans up and kisses him.

“My arm’s falling asleep.”

They shift their positions and Mohinder shakes his arm and grimaces at the pins and needles that prickle through it. They both chuckle and Gabriel drops his right arm across Mohinder’s chest, laying flat his hand over top his heart. Once his arm is fine Mohinder angles it up over Gabriel’s and gazes up the ceiling while Gabriel watches his profile.

Five minutes. Nine minutes. Mohinder is on the verge of dozing off—

“Mohinder?”

“Yeah?”

“…”

“What?”

“Why did you question Bennet about teaming us up, besides the obvious?”

Mohinder looks at Gabriel then turns his body to face him, hesitating with his answer. “After we saw each other last time I had suggested to Bennet that we should be reassigned together…but he wasn’t very receptive.”

Gabriel props himself up on his left arm and looks at him questioningly.

“Surprised?” Mohinder smiles. He knows that the boldness of his move with Bennet means something to Gabriel.

Gabriel moves his hand downward and rubs it across Mohinder’s stomach, just under his bunched up shirt. “Why do you think Bennet changed his mind?”

Mohinder lets out a huff of air. “I don’t purport to know what Bennet’s thinking at any given moment.”

“Do you know what I’m thinking?” Gabriel grins and traces his fingers lightly along Mohinder’s skin.

“I can hazard a guess,” Mohinder says, feeling his face flush, and he shifts again onto his back.

Gabriel leans forward and hovers his lips just above Mohinder’s. “Good or bad?” he asks.

Mohinder removes the small space with a heated kiss.

“Semantics,” Mohinder whispers. “That’s how it always is with us.”

Laying back down Gabriel fits his face against Mohinder’s neck and smiles into this skin. He moves the hand he has on Mohinder’s stomach to rest at the center of Mohinder’s chest. Mohinder angles his face towards Gabriel and with their hands clasped together they slip away into a deep sleep.

 

_**I am a new day rising ~~ I’m a brand new sky ~~ To hang the stars upon tonight ~~ I am a little divided ~~ Do I stay or run away ~~ And leave it all behind?**_   
_**\- Foo Fighters, **_**Times Like These **

Mohinder feels Gabriel jolt against him. Opening his eyes the brightness of the early morning light strikes a contrast around Gabriel’s darkening features, black eyes under heavy brows and unkempt hair pointing in different directions. Mohinder feels Gabriel’s hand tightening around his and follows his glare towards the bedroom door.

Peter, having the decency to look embarrassed at the personal interruption, turns to the side so as not to stare at them directly on the bed; his face reddens slightly. Mohinder is thankful for the wrinkled and mussed up clothes they are wearing but knows that it does not mask the intimacy of what Peter has accidentally stumbled upon.

“Didn’t your mother teach you to knock?” Gabriel rumbles, the irritation in his voice causing Mohinder to squeeze his hand in a silent attempt to persuade him to relax.

“Yeah, sorry…I…uh…” Peter stammers, glancing at them as Mohinder sits up, letting go of Gabriel’s hand, and throws his legs over the side of the bed. “I needed to get to…”

Peter looks at Gabriel. “You…and I focused on that and…uh…I thought you’d be on the sofa.”

It is Mohinder’s turn to blush and he looks at the floor, grasping the edge of the bed in both hands. The mattress dips down then lifts up as Gabriel rolls off it and approaches Peter. Looking over his shoulder, Mohinder steals a brief returned glance with Gabriel and then they both settle their attention on their morning visitor.

“A bit early isn’t it?” Mohinder rubs the sleep from his eyes and stands, doing up the bottom two and third from the top buttons on his shirt.

“Claire saw Dietmar.”

Startled panic floods over Mohinder. He freezes, his hands mid movement, and drops his jaw.

Gabriel, folding his arms across his chest, cocks his head to the side and says, “They found her?”

“Or it’s a strange coincidence he showed up where the Bennets have been hiding.”

“When did this happen?” Mohinder asks stepping forward and closing off their circle.

“We got the call about two hours ago,” Peter sighs. “Noah’s in a panic acting like it’s all under control—so he might do something stupid.”

“The meeting?” Gabriel says.

“Off the books already I would guess,” Mohinder says raising an eyebrow at Peter who nods in the affirmative.

“Bennet’s at least clear about not tipping them off. He says you guys need to act like you’ve heard nothing—in case they’re watching.”

“If they are why not just take them down now?”

Gabriel’s suggestion pumps Mohinder’s heart with concern for such a grand task and the glance he casts his way finds Gabriel frowning at him.

“Because they’re surely not all together,” Mohinder eyes him, the calmness to this tone that speaks of a far more personal stake in their plans. “Strike too hard too fast and who knows how many operatives around the world she can unleash in the blink of an eye.”

“Bennet wants to set a trap, and the planning is something Hyacinthe’s team will appreciate. You guys need to start driving to San Antonio first thing.”

“What’s in San Antonio?” Gabriel says and confusion plays out in his half curled upper lip and sharp lines between his eyebrows.

“Nothing—yet—I’ll meet you along the way…clean clothes and stuff.”

Peter turns towards Mohinder and puts half his back to Gabriel. He lowers his voice even though they all know Gabriel can hear it from blocks away. “I know you and Sylar work well together but you need to watch out. They’ll know you don’t have powers and that…that you two…”

Peter looks over at Gabriel who, for the first time looks concerned as the seriousness of what is happening between he and Mohinder becomes a significant factor outside of their private sphere.

Peter looks back at Mohinder and says, “They’ll know how to get to him using you.”

It is precisely one of the plaguing worries that had eaten at Mohinder since he first gave thought to Gabriel as someone more than a monster from his past or an unexpected friend during their growing partnership. Being _together_ comes at a price, a very risky one for which they will always be reminded. Their lives dictate this destined certainty.

Peter grabs both his shoulders and offers him a lopsided grin. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises.

“Sylar,” he nods and disappears.

Silence stretches out the seconds then Mohinder is picking up his shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on while Gabriel walks to the bedroom door and picks up his vest. Mohinder, tying his shoes, peeks up over his bent knee and watches Gabriel going through the same motions as him while overwhelmed by overactive thoughts. Gabriel picks up his watch from the nightstand and then comes to a sudden stop, gazing at nothing on the floor.

Mohinder stands up and approaches him. “We’ll have to pick up breakfast on the road,” he says and takes the watch. Sliding the ends of the straps around Gabriel’s wrist he fixes the buckle into place. “We’ve done this trip before so it shouldn’t be too bad and…”

Mohinder stares at Gabriel’s wrist in his hands and is suddenly at a loss for words. He feels Gabriel grasp the back of his neck as he leans in to kiss Mohinder’s forehead.

“It’ll be okay,” Gabriel says quietly but Mohinder hears the trace amounts of uncertainty in his otherwise steadfast tone.

“I know,” Mohinder says, tilting his face upwards for a kiss. When he steps back he recognizes the look on Gabriel’s face and imagines it must reflect his own lack of surety. “Let’s go.”

He wraps his hand around Gabriel’s and together they walk to the stairs. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Sequel**  
> **Nominated for Best One Shot**  
> **Nominated for Best Sylar (Gabriel) Characterization** (WINNER)


End file.
